


"Take him out."

by FleetingDesires



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bloodlust, Dark Mycroft Holmes, Fix-It, Holmescest only if you squint, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Protective Mycroft Holmes, Rage, could be just your regular co-dependent brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27600323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetingDesires/pseuds/FleetingDesires
Summary: John has hurt Sherlock for the last time.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 33
Kudos: 80





	"Take him out."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elsa9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsa9/gifts).



> Elsa9 made me laugh so hard with her bloodlust for John that I just had to write it.

Sherlock is in the hospital, again.

This time, it isn't through any fault of his own – except that of his failure to fight back. The rest of him is bruised and battered, but the skin on baby brother's knuckles are unbroken. As he sits by his bedside, waiting for him to return to consciousness, he has his own suspicions on the perpetrator of Sherlock's injuries. There is only one person in the world that Sherlock would not raise a hand to, who could inflict this damage upon him.

They call him the Iceman, but in the present moment it is something of a misnomer as red creeps into his vision. Still, the blood in his veins run cold. Before he'll do anything, though, he's going to sit right here and hear it from Sherlock's own cut lips.

When Sherlock's eyes flutter open, the first thing he sees is a dark and sullen Mycroft sitting by his bedside. He attempts to swallow past his dry and scratchy throat as he realises that Mycroft has not reached out to hold his hand, as he has done so many times before. He knows what's coming next.

So, it isn't a surprise when the first words out of Mycroft's lips are, "I want you to tell me who it was."

"What will–" he says in a scratchy voice, before it turns into a violent cough.

Mycroft helps him to drink some water as he responds. "You're not in the habit of asking questions that you know the answer to, so don't start now."

Sherlock remains quiet for several moments as he drinks. Finally, he nods and Mycroft sets the cup aside. He knows the time has come for him to choose. The man's fate is sealed, and all that is left for Sherlock to decide is where his loyalties lie.

He closes his eyes, saddened by the devolution of the state of affairs. How had it come to this? Happy memories fly past his closed eyelids, coming up unbidden. But later, unhappier ones, also intrude.

He opens his eyes again to look at the one constant he had always had; the one that as much as it pained him to admit, he could never afford or want to lose. So he opens his mouth not to condemn a man to certain death, but in a show of supreme selfishness and an unmistakeable statement of choice. "John," he whispers.

He hadn't known it was possible, but the look in Mycroft's eyes turns even darker. He nods, before walking the short distance to the window and placing a call. "Take him out," he says, all ice and steel in his voice.

Mycroft comes back to sit on the bed next to him, taking his hand and kissing the back of it. "Thank you."

Hours after night has fallen, Mycroft finally leaves Sherlock to his rest as he slips into his car. He looks into the familiar eyes of Anthea in the rearview mirror. "Let's go," he commands. With a nod, Anthea pulls away from the kerb, making their journey to the nondescript building that housed one of their many black sites peppered through London and its surrounds.

Mycroft heads to the small office he had chosen for himself, changing into jeans and a form-fitted t-shirt. After all, it wouldn't do to get his five-thousand-dollar bespoke suit dirty for this scum. He takes the pair of latex gloves proffered by one of his men at the entrance to the small room where his captive is held before the door is held open for him.

He strides in to the well-lit room, sitting in the empty chair and surveys the dishevelled man across from him as the door snicks shut. John had startled upright when he entered the room, and was now bearing a familiar look of dread and fear that so many men in his position had given him. Just like them, he knew exactly what he had done to find himself before the coldest aspect of Mycroft Holmes. Unlike them, he didn't know that it was a portent of death, whether by his own hand or someone else's.

Mycroft didn't care to enlighten him just then, merely crossing his legs and resting his arms over it, one hand still clutching the gloves.

John took this in, including his appearance. "What is this, some sort of enhanced scare tactic? A dark warehouse not enough for the occasion?"

Mycroft simply sighed. It was all so mundane. Really, the man would serve as the perfect subject for agents in training. He remained silent, continuing to affix the man with his unnerving gaze.

John started to fidget in his seat, straining at the bonds at his wrists and ankles that held him to the chair. "You had best let me go. Sherlock wouldn't stand for this."

Mycroft was thankful for his decades of experience in restraining his thoughts and emotions from revealing itself in his body. Otherwise, he might have jumped straight to the conclusion and pummelled the man into pulp, and there wasn't nearly enough satisfaction in that. With controlled grace, he instead takes his phone out of his pocket, and plays back the conversation with Sherlock he had secretly recorded.

The room was plunged back into silence as the recording cut off shortly after Sherlock had whispered his name, loud enough to highlight the oppressive silence that followed it.

Finally, it was broken by John's pleas. "No, that's not possible. He wouldn't– he can't have– Please, I promise I won't do it again. I know I shouldn't have. I'll, I'll get into a program. I'll stay away. I'll do anything. Please."

Mycroft merely looked on, unmoving, as the man babbled pathetically. It really was a shame there wasn't a viewing gallery to this room. There really was so much to be learnt in the fundamentals. He finally spoke. "You are a triumph of mediocrity, Dr Watson. Greater and worse men than you have sat in your very position, saying the exact same things to me." He examined his fingernails, satisfied they were short and blunt, before he started to put on the gloves. "Perhaps you have seen too much of my care for Sherlock to remember that he once described me as the most dangerous man you've ever met. Or perhaps you scoffed at it because after the first time you laid a hand on him, you suffered no consequences. Had you never wondered why? Or did you just assume that I hadn't found out?"

He strolled around to the back of John chair, taking a firm grasp of his hair with one hand, and placing the other at his throat. A split second later, he yanked his head backward with a sharp, painful tug, and stared down into his terrified eyes. "Newsflash, goldfish: if my dear brother had been but five minutes later to darken my doorstep, you would have found yourself in here much, much sooner. I paid a high price for acquiescing to him that day. So thank you, Dr Watson, for giving me another chance to do now what I could not then." He flung John to the floor solely with the grip he had on his head, relishing in the grunts of pain.

Mycroft walked over sedately before he started kicking, with all his might, in the same locationson his body that he had subjected Sherlock to, mildly regretting that he had omitted to swap out his shoes for the steel-tipped ones in the closet upstairs. Ah, no matter. It seems to have done the job, anyway.

Panting, he swept the cowlick back from his face, before peering down into John's. Or at least, that was the intention, but John had his face buried in the ground, and was crying loudly. "Oh, do shut up," he said, disgusted. "I am reminded of why I don't get involved. You know, to die by my hand is a privilege few have the chance to experience these days. Usually, I'm only here for a little chat before they're handed off to the agent in charge. I'm not even sure if you're worth my time, but I don't particularly feel like abusing much more governmental resources tonight."

"Please," John moaned. "I'll do anything you want," he whimpered pathetically into the floor.

"What I want, is my brother home safe and unharmed. What I want, is to turn back time so that I could have done this earlier. Since I can have neither, what I _want_ is for you to cease breathing." He punctuated his sentences with more kicks, before he bent low to yank John's head closer to him. Curving towards his ear, he said softly, menacingly, "Everyone who has ever laid a hand on Sherlock is either dead or in jail, the latter only when it is due to one of his cases. I will not abide seeing him hurt. You squandered the one second chance anyone had ever gotten, and you will not get a third." He viciously slammed John's head on the hard ground.

The next two hours flew by for Mycroft even as it crawled to a standstill for John. Mycroft needed no implements of torture to turn a man's body against itself. Just as John was about to slip into unconsciousness from the pain, Mycroft grabbed his now bloodied and battered face and spat, "You don't deserve to die in your sleep," before he snapped his spinal cord with a savage twist of his neck.

He took a minute to let his breathing stabilise, as he slowly stripped off the gloves and tossed it on the lifeless body in front of him. Smoothing down his clothes and hair, and wiping away the sweat, he took a last glance at John, resisting the urge to drive his heel into the now unrecognisable face.

By the time he made it across to the door, he had fully collected himself. Striding out, he instructed the men waiting for him that standard cleanup procedures should apply, before he made his way to change into a fresh suit, kindly provided for by his ever thoughtful assistant.

As he sat in the car heading back to the hospital, he thought he might arrange to conduct one or two of these sessions on a more regular basis. He'd forgotten how satisfying it could be.


End file.
